


An Ecstasty of Fumbling

by lovelyleias



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, References to historical poetry, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyleias/pseuds/lovelyleias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her little sister died when she was six. She choked on a piece of bread and there was no one around to save her. She was found, blue and bug-eyed, surrounded by her two youngest brothers who played merrily with their building blocks. Éponine did not speak for three months, which went unnoticed. Little girls are so easily forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ecstasty of Fumbling

He was born nearly three months premature, in a bright hospital three blocks from his family’s house. When he was finally released from his mother’s womb, his parents waited for him to cry, but no sound came from his lips. He was thrown into an ambulance, destined for a specialized hospital that would hopefully make his faulty lungs work. The vehicle had not yet started when he let out a scream of outrage for a world he did not yet know. His mother named him Grégoire Enjolras because Grégoire meant vigilant. A child with such a dramatic entrance would have to keep his guard.

 

She was born just over two weeks overdue in the living room of her family’s dwelling. Hospitals were a luxury that would only result in late rent. She slipped easily into the world, but she cried and cried as if she had seen her own death. She was not named for nearly a month, not out of malice, but simply because her mother could not make up her mind. Her mother was a frequent devourer of the trashy romance paperbacks that the mailman brought to her door, and named all five of the children she would bear from those books. For her eldest, she finally chose Éponine Thénardier. One of the characters in a book had mentioned an ‘Éponine’. Her mother did not know what it meant, nor did she care to find out. But it did sound pretty.

 

_“I remember the hospital, you know.”_

_“You remember being born?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Liar.”_

_“I’ve never told you a lie.”_

_“That’s one you told just now, love.”_

_“Perhaps. It’s too dark here. Is there a light?”_

_“You know there isn’t. Close your eyes.”_

_“I don’t know how.”_

 

His father died when he was three—shot in the head with his own gun, by his own hand. Grégoire did not fully understand the permanence of death, but he understood that he would never get to be spun in his papa’s arms again. The reason behind his father’s suicide was an answer that only the man himself held. 

 

Her little sister died when she was six. She choked on a piece of bread and there was no one around to save her. She was found, blue and bug-eyed, surrounded by her two youngest brothers who played merrily with their building blocks. Éponine did not speak for three months, which went unnoticed. Little girls are so easily forgotten.

 

_“Sometimes I remember her name.”_

_“Do you remember it now?”_

_“Yes. Azelma. A silly name. But Maman had a taste for the frivolous.”_

_“If you remember her, does that mean you remember me?”_

_“I never forgot you. How could I? It’s just the two of us here.”_

_“You forgot who I was two days ago. Or… two decades ago. I don’t recall…”_

_“Neither do I.”_

_“Will you hold my hand? I sometimes get scared, my dear.”_

_“Sure.”_

 

By the time he’s twenty, he sheds his name, preferring the anonymity of his surname. He answers only to Enjolras. Whispers of vile happenings once more in Germany begin to float around Paris. War will come again. After school he attends demonstrations and becomes entranced as shouting people encourage the crowds to let the whispers rise, and not let Germany’s bloody deeds go unheard. He leaves them with a rush of adrenaline.

 

She runs away to Paris when she’s nineteen. She has no money, no contacts, just a wild heart and a wilder spirit. She sleeps on the streets and does odd-jobs for anyone who needs assistance during the day. One night she is awoken by shouting policemen, who accuse her of being a prostitute or a thief. Rather than defend herself, for she knew she’d have no case against policemen, she runs and runs and runs. She ends up in an unfamiliar part of the city. 

 

_“You ran right into the campus.”_

_“I didn’t know.”_

_“It took me half the night to convince you to let me buy you a drink.”_

_“Not true. I never turned down free booze.”_

_“Then it took me a day to fall in love with you.”_

_“You see? I told you you’re a liar.”_

_“Did you? Alright. Perhaps more than a day.”_

_“Shall we say, three years?”_

 

Over three years, they became good friends. He introduced her to his inner circle and they welcomed her with open arms. Eventually, a man she did odd-jobs for offered her a position as a barmaid, a job she immediately accepted.

The war began. He considered joining the army as some of his friends did, but decided against it. 

 

_“Why?”_

_“It wasn’t my battle.”_

_“But the millions of people—“_

_“And what of the German citizens that France murdered?”_

_“Hey. What is France?”_

_“Where we lived.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_“No.”_

 

They fell into bed together one night after a particularly frenzied protest against France’s participation in the war. She had showed up half drunk and looking for a fight. She’d pulled Enjolras down when he stepped from the podium and kissed him so hard he’d bled. They raced to his apartment and tore off their clothes in a flurry. He’d been a nervous virgin, and she had laughed in his face until he figured himself out.

Afterwards, his fingers traced invisible patterns on her breasts as she smoked the last two cigarettes that the budget she had made for that week allowed her to buy.

She moved in a few months later, claiming loudly to anyone who would listen that it was only because the view from his windows was pleasing.

 

“Do you think we would have gotten married?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh… Éponine?”

“What is it?”

“I don’t see you.”

“Hush. I’m here.”

“Promise?

“Promise.”

“Can we go home soon? This isn’t right.”

“This is our home now, my sweet. Wait. Do you remember the colour of my hair?”

“Of course. It’s black. Like the wings of a raven at night.”

“Strange. I could have sworn it was red.” 

 

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori were Homer’s words, later turned into poetry by Owen. It is sweet and proper to die for your country. The sweetness or bitterness of death cannot be tasted until it is lived. Éponine and Enjolras did not die for their country, unlike so many of their friends. They did not die for each other. There was no poetry, there was no grace, there was no peace. 

They died screaming as the flesh melted from their faces. A gas leak in the apartment, the inspectors decided. One minute they were content and the next they were in hell. They died trapped in the same room, both shy of twenty-five. The smoke got him first, but she lasted longer. When she could stand the heat and pain no more, she groaned and collapsed on top of his corpse.

 

_“I don’t like it here.”_

_“Do you think I do?”_

_“It’s too dark.”_

_“And yet I prefer it to brightness.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why what?”_

_“Why do you prefer it to brightness?”_

_“Did I say that?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Oh. I can’t remember.”_

_“Do we have a light yet?”_

_“No, Enjolras. I told you to close your eyes.”_

_“I can’t. Can you?”_

_“I don’t know.”_


End file.
